Ninth
by Matrix-Twin1
Summary: An angsy little piece between Enjy and R. It was SUPPOSED to be a oneshot, non slash, but... I think it'll end happily, at any rate... dunno, whatever the plot bunnies do with me...
1. Passion

"I am simply tired of your constant hounding!"

The others gasped. Besides raw passion for his cause, Enjolras never showed what he was feeling, especially not for his followers.

Grantaire, the hapless victim of the outburst, hung his head. He had gone too far this time, and he knew it. Utter shame had wiped any memory of the exact words, but the gist was easily guessed. He was truly sorry, but assumed that Enjolras would quickly resume his speech.

To his utter shock, the blonde man strode to his seat in the corner, shoved the chair backwards until it hit the wall, grasped Grantaire's shoulders, slammed him against the wall, and grabbed his neck with one slender hand, pinning him with his body as well.

Grantaire froze. The room silenced, none of the Revolutionaries wanted to interfere with their leader's wrath. Besides, it was only R…

R forced his head back as far as the hand would allow, true terror evident on his face. He had never seen Apollo like this; the true incarnation of his personality. Only Grantaire saw the look of pure, unfiltered fury directed at him. He went utterly limp, submissive. He was lost to the smaller man, and he knew it. A single tear rolled down the large cheek, evoking no response in his captor.

"Now." Enjolras's word gained still more attention, the atmosphere of the room was utterly stifling. Glancing away from his victim, the god turned to his subjects. "Leave."

With only a hasty shuffling, the others retreated. They, too, were afraid, and had not even been touched.

Enjolras turned back. His grip had not loosened in the slightest. Grantaire was no less petrified. He was certain he would be killed. _Better to be killed by a God…_ but he wasn't really paying attention to the thought. His being was focused on the face of Enjolras, so close to his own, so terrible.

"You know what you did wrong." It wasn't a question.

Grantaire tried to nod, but the hand at his throat produced a strangled noise. Gasping slightly, he tried to speak. "Yes."

The hand loosened a fraction, but the slender body leaned in harder. "Then why," the god asked, not really to the prisoner, "am I reacting like this. It is no different from any other time."

Grantaire was both intelligent and sober enough to remain still and silent. A formidable man, whom he adored, had him at his utter mercy. He no longer knew what he was feeling. He tried to look away, but the hand pressed backward, almost as if Enjolras was trying to reach through the brawny neck. Grantaire swallowed, hard and painfully.

Enjolras continued. "Honestly, I don't know why. The revolution is closer, even _you_ must feel that. But…" he shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't matter." His expression changed, the thoughtful replaced again by anger. "Why do you come here? Why? To torment me? You gain some depraved satisfaction?"

Grantaire shook his head, slightly. He was still terrified, but fascinated all the same. His god had spoken, confided, shown emotion.

"Then why?" Gently, Enjolras released the other man's throat, leaning a little harder.

Grantaire allowed himself a moment to compose, blinking, swallowing, avoiding eye contact. "You know why," to the floor.

The wild ferocity filled Enjolras' eyes again. Grabbing the limp Grantaire's shoulders, he slammed the man backwards into the wall, bashing the back of his head sharply. Grantaire winced, still not looking up. "Tell me."

"You." One word, an eternity of meaning. He allowed himself the briefest of glances into the piercing eyes fixed on him.

Enjolras stepped back, sighing. Grantaire, utterly submissive, sank to the floor in a boneless heap, sobbing quietly.

"I knew. I had to hear. But…what does this mean? What am I to you?"

The shaggy head perched on the heap moved, slowly, from side to side.

Enjolras knelt, leaning in, inhaling the sharp reek of wine that permeated his victim. Gently, as if speaking to a child, he repeated, "What does this mean?"

Slowly, shakily, Grantaire straightened his neck, leaning his head against the wall. He gave another choking sob, another pair of tears streaking his face. Eyes closed, blocking out the glory before him, he began. "You…it's not 'what am I to you', it's what aren't you to me. You are everything. My god, my muse, if I did anything, my… I have never…" he inhaled, that sharp, painful breath that stems from crying. "I have never loved anyone, anything…except you." He bowed his head again, flinching into himself, clearly expecting a blow, a harsh word.

Enjolras smiled. Leaning back on his haunches, he extended a hand to the shaking lump. Grantaire didn't notice. Slowly, gently, like approaching a wild animal, he reached out a hand, put it on Grantaire's shoulder. Grantaire turned away, neck twisted painfully, hair falling over his eyes, sticking to the tears. Enjolras squeezed lightly, getting Grantaire's attention.

Grantaire looked up, carefully, as if afraid the vision would vanish. Enjolras was still there, still watching him, touching him, holding out a rescuing hand. His own hand emerged from the pile, shaking as it sought strength. Enjolras took it, still smiling. He carefully drew the shorter man up, holding him close. Grantaire shuddered, sobbing again. Enjolras ran his hands over Grantaire's back, making soothing noises deep in his throat.

Without warning, he tilted Grantaire's head back, nestling the chin in his palm. He stared into Grantaire's eyes for a moment, before leaning in, ever so slowly. Grantaire closed his eyes, tried to draw back. Enjolras took his head, holding Grantaire's head steady. Their lips met. With a final gasp, Grantaire broke away, fleeing the café, sobbing into the night.


	2. Regrets

Three weeks had passed. None of les Amis had seen Grantaire, nor knew anything about him. None of them really cared, for that matter. Enjolras was more than a little worried, and ashamed, but it was impossible for him to inquire, or reveal his reason for wondering. Even on his discreet rounds of Grantaire's most frequented haunts, there was no news of the drunkard from anyone. Still, Enjolras attempted to carry on as usual. Only a few of the more perceptive ones, such as Jehan, or those who knew him better, such as Ferre, noticed any change. Not even these two so much as guessed the reason.

Alone in his flat, thoughts of revolution only led to thoughts of Grantaire. He hated it. Hated himself for thinking, the thoughts for existing, Grantaire for causing them. He wished it would stop. Flopping on his bed, most unusual for him, he wrapped himself in his blankets like a crepe, attempting to block out the world. It, however, had other plans. There was a long, loud knock at his door. If one's manner of knocking indicates personality, this one was loud, crass, and rude. Enjolras started, took a moment to compose himself, and opened the door slowly. Grantaire, who had only remained standing due to the door, collapsed on top of him, spilling them both onto a pile of dirty laundry, papers and books. Grantaire was very drunk, very sick, and very unconscious. Enjolras realized his lips were pressed against the winecask's forehead, and their...groins...were touching. This evoked a strange combination of joy and horror in Enjolras, and he quickly rolled the unyielding weight off.

Taking a seat at his desk, Enjolras contemplated. Grantaire was in his room. He was clearly unwell, and also unconscious. Enjolras knew enough about the man to know that he had no family, at least none he spoke to, no friends, unless les Amis counted, and no discernable source of income. Aside from that, Enjolras knew virtually nothing about his companion, not even if he had a flat, or where this hypothetical flat might be. All he knew was that the man he lo—knew had appeared, obviously in need of help, and it was his, Enjolras', duty to look after him.

Sighing, Enjolras rose, hoisted the limp Grantaire under his arms, and placed him on his own bed. This done, he had no idea how to continue. Soup, he thought vaguely, something about soup...give the sick person soup? Don't let them have soup? He was so overwhelmed by Grantaire's sudden and complete reemergence that he could hardly think straight, He decided to consult Joly.

Joly, as it happened, was drunk, one of the first times in his life. Not very drunk, mind you, just enough to make him tipsy, giddy, and rather louder than usual. When Enjolras finally found him, several hours later, he was faced with a rather different Joly than usual. However, he was so distracted that he hardly noticed. He attempted to approach Jolllly stealthily, an endeavor that he failed very well, succeeding only in bringing curious glances. Joly, however, was startled.

"Enjolra'! What're you doin' 'ere?" he said, with just a touch of slurring.

Enjolras was still oblivious. "Well, you see, I need a favor..."

"O! A _favor_ is't? Well, 'nything for my buddy Enjolra'!"

At this point, even Enjolras couldn't help but notice his friend's condition. "Joly!" he asked, utterly amazed, "have you been drinking?!"

"Drinkin'? Naw...Jus' a little... Not like _some_." Here he peered around suspiciously. "No' like...Grantaire..."

Enjolras started, sure that Joly was insinuating something. Joly just took the opportunity to nab another swig of wine. "Er, yes, uh, well..."

"You said you had a _favor_."

"Yes. Yes of course. I need your advice."

Joly's voice had grown steadily louder over the course of the conversation. For normal-Joly, it was now almost at yelling volume. "You wan' a favor _an'_ advice? E'en from you, tha's a lost....a lot...a lost lot..." He giggled a little, spilling a little puddle of wine. He stared regretfully at it; it was his last.

"Well, I have a sick...friend...and I don't know what to do. Maybe if I just tell you—"

Smiling condescendingly, Joly absently patted Enjolras' hand, dragging his own sleeve through the puddle. "S'all right... We all know. Was obvious."

Enjolras blushed, but was somewhat relieved. "Oh. Good. Well, come with me, then."

With some difficulty, Joly managed to stand, aided heavily by Enjolras' arm. Outside the dismal cafe Joly had stationed himself in there was an old, disused horsetrough, full of rainwater. On a whim, Enjolras grabbed Joly's hair and the back of his coat, and dunked his head.

Joly came up spluttering, but himself. "Enjolras! What on earth...?! Do you know how many _achoo_ diseases _achoo_ there are _achoo_ in there?!" He began to stalk off, huffily.

Enjolras sighed, following. "Oh, Joly... I'm sorry. Look, here's a woman selling medicine. Pick out anything you like."

Joly looked as happy as a hypochondriac in an apothecary. In fact, he was one. While Enjolras waited impatiently, staring dismally at all the bottles, which all looked, and he suspected contained, the same. Joly, however, raced around, showing much more energy than usual. After what seemed an eternity for both Enjolras and the shopkeeper, Joly squealed gently, holding up a jar to Enjolras' skeptical eyes.

"It's...alive..." He peered into the jar. It was full of clear liquid, with writhing brown things. He decided he didn't want to know. "That's...very good. Alive is good. How much?"

"Three francs," Joly said, beginning to hyperventilate a little.

Enjolras paid with five, and told the owner to keep the change. He just wanted to be gone.

When he looked back at Joly, the brown squirmy things were gone. Enjolras chanted to himself, _don't ask don't ask don't ask..._ until he arrived home. Waving Joly through the door ahead of him, Enjolras entered, leaning against the door. It had been a _very_ long day...

Joly cast a jaded eye around him, appraising, criticizing, then...his eyes came to the bed. He gasped. "I-it's Grantaire! He's dead! In your bed! He's in your bed, dead! He's bed in your dead!" Swooning, he collapsed into a chair, gasping.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. At times, Joly could be more irritating than...Grantaire. "He isn't dead. I found him this morning. Besides, you said you knew."

"Knew!Knew! What are you talking about, knew! I had no idea!"

Enjolras frowned. "Joly, at the cafe, I said I had a sick friend, and could you...and you said 'we all know'."

"Oh," said Joly, "I suppose I did. Well...I know...knew...thought...we thought you had a mistress!"

"WHAT!" roared Enjolras, turning as red as his famed vest, in both anger and humilation. "I, a mistress, I, Enjolras, a MISTRESS! You lot are out of your heads..."

Joly had shrunk back in his seat. Grantaire woke, slightly, at the outburst, enough to groan softly. Joly yelped, throwing himself at Enjolras. Enjolras shoved him back into the chair. "I told you, he's not dead. He's sick. That's why I asked you here, for help."

Joly instantly assumed his best bed-side manner. Which, due to lack of practice, and being Joly, wasn't very good. "Well...well-well-well..."

Enjolras groaned. "Look, just tell me what's wrong with him, please!"

Joly puffed himself up, but quickly deflated at the glare he received. "Er, well...he hasn't eaten for, oh, a week at least, he's drunk more wine than humanly possible, he has a bad cold, and god knows what else. I'll have to question him if—I mean, when, he awakes." Lookly thoroughly satisfied with himself, Joly stepped aside, arms folded over his narrow chest.

"Hmmm...and?"

"And?"

"And what do I do about it?"

"Oh! Yes, yes of course. Um...well...you could...no, that wouldn't...or! No...perhaps..."

Without realizing it, Enjolras had begun to tap his foot.

"Yes! Lots of rest, plenty to eat, and, er, love...."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. Joly, King of the obvious... "Alright, thank you, see you tomorrow!" as he all but shoved the other out the door. Sighing, he leaned again against the closed door, glad to be alone at last.

At just that moment, Grantaire groaned again, and rolled over slightly. Enjolras hurried over, to make sure he was alright. He wondered why he cared, wished he didn't. One of Grantaire's eyes opened slightly, revealing their startled blue, so contrasting with his shaggy mop of deep brown hair.

"Maman?"

Oh great, thought Enjolras, he's delirious...I wonder what day it is...I should never, _ever_ open the door on this day. Ever again. "Non, Grantaire. C'est moi. Enjolras." (sorry, random French sentence...)

Grantaire grinned sleepily. "Enjolras..." the word trailed off as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

Enjolras shivered. The way he had said it...Like he expected Enjolras to make everything alright, like he made the world safe. Said it like he...loved him, and he meant it. He turned away, built up the already roaring fire to distract himself. It occurred to him, offhand, as if someone had casually mentioned it, that he was hungry. And Grantaire hadn't eaten in a week! He suddenly remembered that Bossuet had been by the day before, having run out of money and food yet again. He had nothing in the house to eat, he would have to go out.

"Damn! Forgot to ask about soup!"

An hour later, Enjolras returned to his flat, burdened with heavy baskets of food. Shoving onto the largest clear area of table, he peered at his 'guest'. He was still asleep. Distractedly, Enjolras muttered as he arranged the food. "Well, I wasn't sure what you liked, or what was good, so I got a bunch. No wine, though, no no no, not for you. Hmm, let's see. What would you like? Maybe just a little bread and cheese to start, nothing too heavy if you haven't eaten. Or, is it a lot you're supposed to eat? Oohh, I need Combeferre!"

At that moment, there was another knock. This one was much lighter, but sounded as if it were accustomed to knocking at this door, and gaining entry.

Warily, Enjolras opened the door, peering around it to see..."Combeferre! Oh, mon dieu... you're just who I need..."

Combeferre looked startled, but smiled. "Yes, I will come in. No, thank you, I just ate. I am well, thanks, and you?"

Enjolras grinned slightly. "Sorry, mon ami, this day has been...crazy... Please, come in. I need your help."

Combeferre shrugged. "Anything for you."

"You see, it's..."

"Grantaire!"

Enjolras winced. "Yes, yes, he's sleeping, so please be quiet. Joly was by, and..."

"Joly? He knows, too? Am I the last, as usual?"

"No, only you and Joly and I know. I found him this morning. Anyway, Joly said he's sick and needs to eat, so I got food, but I don't know what's good or bad, and he hasn't eaten in a week and I'm worried!"

"Enjolras, I've never heard you make such a speech about anyone, let alone...Grantaire? We all thought you despise him."

A little too quickly, Enjolras replied, "I-I do! It's just, I had to do _something_."

Combeferre nodded, accepting this excuse. "Yes, yes of course. I understand. Now, let's see what you have..."

"Grantaire. Grantaire, wake up."

Grantaire was a little less delirious at this point, and already half awake. Opening his eyes slowly, a habit he had developed from long years of hangovers, he peered around. He had no idea where he was. This wasn't uncommon for him, but there was something vaguely familiar. Then he remembered. Enjolras. Enjolras attacking him, pinning him to the wall. Enjolras kissing him. Finding his way, after all that time, to him.

"Enjolras?" he croaked, his voice rougher than usual. He shuddered slightly, he hadn't seen his god since that night.

"No, it is I, Combeferre. Here, have some soup."

Grantaire looked skeptical.

Combeferre grinned softly. It was a little strange, being kind to the winecask, but he adjusted quickly. "Don't worry. I didn't let our leader near the pot. Try some, it's good."

"What kind?" Grantaire had begun to assume his personality again, like he would put on a coat to go out.

Combeferre winked, pretending to cast his eyes about for Enjolras. "Wine flavoured, mon ami."

Grantaire shook his head softly, but allowed Combeferre to help him sit, hold the bowl, hold the spoon, hating himself the whole time. He was so ashamed. Declaring his feelings to Enjolras, of course he would be mocked like that. And now, the ultimate humiliation; being babied here, in his room. He stifled a sob, his breathing ragged. The soup was good, however, and his body relished the warmth and nourishment that he had so long denied it. He nodded his thanks to Combeferre, swallowing the soup as quickly as possible.

Combeferre nodded in return, spoke briefly with Enjolras, and left.


	3. Alone at last

Alone at last… Enjolras turned, slowly. He had been aware of Grantaire's eyes on his back, and he finally decided that facing him would be the less awkward position. He examined his companion. The blanket was pulled up to his chin, the empty soup bowl placed off to the side. The only visible part of him was shaggy brown hair, curling gently over wide, unruly eyebrows, medium blue eyes half hidden by thick, dark lashes, a wide, strong nose, full lips, mighty and rough chin. Those eyes were fixed on him, clamoring for answers.

For the first time, Enjolras couldn't meet those eyes. When scorning Grantaire, or shaming him, or anything but this, he had no trouble meeting them, or anyone's. Grantaire licked his lips, a strange habit of his when nervous. Enjolras looked up, then down again, then up, at least five times. Finally, staring at the path worn in the carpet by years of pacing, he spoke. He tried to keep his voice as flat and empty as always, but some anger, fear, and concern leaked in.

"Where were you?"

Grantaire flinched, disappearing further under the blanket, evidently expecting a harsh reprimand.

Enjolras sighed. All his years of cruelty and humiliation had caught up at last. Earning this hurt being's trust would be difficult, even with the amount of adoration. "I-I'm sorry."

Grantaire had never heard his idol apologize. To anyone, let alone him. He frowned, slightly. He still felt extremely light headed; perhaps he had imagined it?

"I'm sorry." Enjolras repeated, more firmly.

"For what? For having me here?" The harsh retort escaped, unbidden. The large, pained eyes filled with tears, bringing out subtle tones in the blue.

Enjolras shook his head, blonde ponytail swinging until it rested on his shoulder. "No, not for that. Never. You know what."

Grantaire thought back to that night, weeks ago. The roles were reversed, and he didn't like it. It wasn't meant to be this way. But, he part was cast, he had to continue the play. "Tell me." Much gentler than Enjolras had spoken those same words. Enjolras had wanted to hear the answer; Grantaire needed to.

"I—for—" Enjolras paused, swallowed, straightened his cravat and shoulders, and shook himself lightly. "For treating you so harshly. For kissing you, for driving you from me."

Grantaire closed his eyes, spilling the tears down his rough cheeks. He needed this, but he couldn't handle it. He extracted a hand from the covers, raised it, and beckoned Enjolras closer. Without thinking, Enjolras obeyed. Grantaire placed the hand on Enjolras' arm, pulling him closer. Still, as if someone else controlled his body, Enjolras bent. Raising his head slightly, Grantaire whispered, as if ashamed by what he had to say, "Never be sorry for the kiss."

Enjolras gasped, drawing away.

Another tear fell down Grantaire's face, and a rough sob escaped his throat. He turned away, showing Enjolras a length of his back.

Enjolras gently rolled him back, staring down at that rough, obstinate face. He smiled, filling his already angelic features with godlike radiance. "No, mon cher, I don't." With that, he leaned down again, watching astonishment, awe, and love cross Grantaire's countenance. He bent further, until their lips touched. Grantaire's were so rough from these weeks of neglect, but still soft and warm. Enjolras felt the other man gasp, falling limp. Slowly, gently, Enjolras slid his arms under Grantaire, lifting him to himself, feeling Grantaire melt into him. He kissed more deeply, pressing lightly with his tongue. Hastily, Grantaire opened his mouth slightly, forcing Enjolras to work his tongue in, working, tasting. Grantaire sighed softly. Opening his eyes, Enjolras realized the other had fallen asleep. Smiling benevolently, Enjolras pulled back carefully, releasing his charge. He gently pulled the covers higher, smoothed Grantaire's hair on the pillow. Still smiling, he knelt by the side of the bed, watching his dark love sleep. Feeling more at peace than he had in years, Enjolras allowed himself to also claim sleep.

(next chapter will be called Unbending…this is mostly for me, but anyway…)


	4. Bacchus Relentless

(Oh, man, I'm listening to 'Vincent' by Don McClean… It's so much like post-barricade Enjy, I think I'm gonna cry… yup, here I go… damn… If you want Enjolras, listen to that song…)

(fortunately, didn't cry much...)

Several weeks passed. Grantaire recovered, regained his weight and wit. Enjolras softened, if only a little. They grew together, working out or forgetting the past. They were companions in the truest sense. They shared Enjolras' bed, money, and home, but this was of no importance. They shared each other. They became, for all purposes, one person, neither Enjolras or Grantaire, but both. Neither of them could have explained it, but it had happened, so gradually that they hardly noticed.

Finally, the day came when Grantaire was well. In point of fact, he had been for some time, but on this day he got restless. He had, by some wonder, avoided drink of any kind over these weeks, and he was content with all Enjolras had to offer. Or, he had been. He had, in gaining Enjolras, lost his desire for women, seeing that they were only his seeking of Enjolras. But Bacchus, that dark and fickle god, had released his siren song again, and Grantaire was helpless to resist. Enjolras was at class, and none of Les Amis were around, for once. (So far, Grantaire had hidden whenever an ami was around, until the 'right time', as Enjolras put it). Grantaire was alone, with only the cries of the spirits to guide him. He followed them, neglecting the consequences. He walked, a little unsteadily at first, to the nearest wine shop, having found a few francs in his pocket. Returning to Enjolras' flat with his treasures, he silenced his god with tribute.

It was Wednesday, Enjolras had several classes in a row, so it was some hours before he returned, smiling, laden with food and knowledge. He swept into the room, shouting some cheerful exclamation to his new room mate and lover. There was no answer. Mildly concerned, Enjolras began searching the rooms. As he neared the final room, the bedroom, he grinned. Grantaire must be up to some trick, ready to pounce, he supposed. Stealthily, he pushed the door open as slowly as he could, trying to surprise the other man. There was no attack. Bewildered, he poked his head into the room. Grantaire was on the bed, but neither scantily clad or making any effort at seduction. In fact, he was having difficulty remaining conscious. Enjolras blinked, unable to believe what he was seeing. He had, he admitted, been a little in love with the old Grantaire, but the new, improved version was his amour, his everything. This was no longer the man he knew and loved. He opened his eyes. Grantaire was in the same position, surrounded by empty bottles. Without any conscious thought, Enjolras brushed away a tear angrily. He was speechless, for once. He couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Grantaire must have heard some small sound, for he looked up, slowly and shakily. He had drunk more than he usually would have, even with his tolerance he had once possessed. He grinned, in an attempt to be sexy, but only made Enjolras angrier.

Enjolras finally managed to speak. "Get…out."

Grantaire blinked, still smiling. "W-wha'?"

"GET OUT! GET OUT!" Screaming, tears streaming down his face, Enjolras threw himself toward the man on the bed.

He looked so singularity frightening that Grantaire managed to rise, and beat a hasty retreat, ducking to avoid various objects that followed him. He collapsed on Enjolras' step, unable to go further.

Enjolras fell onto the bed, still screaming. He beat at the pillows, attacking anything within reach. Temporarily exhausted, he fell forward, into the chaos. It smelled of Grantaire, both his usual scent and alcohol. Enjolras stood, tore everything off the bed, shredded it, and threw it out the window. The room looked as if hurricane Enjolras had struck. Anything breakable was broken, the books had been shredded, papers covered every surface, and random objects littered the floor. With a final, desperate sobbing scream, Enjolras fell onto the ravished bed, wishing, longing for the forgetfulness of sleep.

(don't worry, mes ami! It'll be happier next chapter. But, they still have ithues that need to be worked out…)


	5. Night

It was a long, hard night. Enjolras would sleep briefly, fitfully, then awake furious, sweating. He would wonder why, what dread dreams had pursued him, then he would remember. Grantaire. He would then pace, swear, curse, scream, cry, for hours, then collapse to the bed, shaking. He must have done this a half-dozen times. Finally, when he awoke, the sun had risen. He realized he had classes. Mechanically, he dressed, hardly aware of his actions. His only thought, dimly, was that maybe he would meet Combeferre, some distraction. He stumbled (I mean, walked with emphasis for dramatic effect :D) out the door, forgetting his keys. Fortunately, he also forgot to lock the door. He was nearly to the street when his feet encountered an encumbrance. Distractedly, he glanced down. A heap of rags had been thrown in front of the door. He tried to kick it out of the way, but it was heavier than expected. It moved. A rough, dirty hand emerged, followed by a coarse, shaggy head. It was Grantaire. (ha ha, Donna... I know how much you love those. It was an accident, I swear. Oh, Erin and Oliver are coming x x.... heh

I'm no' drunk... sigh anyway...)

Grantaire awoke at the kick, ready to head off any attacker. It wouldn't be the first time someone had tried, or even succeeded, to mug him while he was sleeping it off. Instead of a dirty youth or ragged man, he saw an angel. The sun was shining on Enjolras' hair, which was in loose curls, haloed around his head. Grantaire blinked, dispelling some of the drink induced blur, allowing him to recognize his idol. He gasped, sharply, and babbled. "Enjolras, please, I'm sorry, take me back, I-I didn't..."

Enjolras stared down at him, the war-god incarnate. Sharply, he retorted, "Get out of my way, Grantaire! You are, were, and always will be, a waste of time. That's all you were."

Grantaire blinked back tears. This was not the Enjolras he had loved. It was, rather, the man he had idolized, not the man whose bed he had shared. His mind froze, he brought forth the first thought whole enough to speak. "I-Enjolras, please! I want the republic, I do! I want the republic, I want the republic..." His voice trailed off into sobs. (I actually apparently tried this last night on my Enjolras-friend...this was during the period of time that has been lost to the ocean of alcohol....both symbolically and literally... anyway, proving for all time that my 'true personality' is Grantaire... heh)

Enjolras swallowed. He couldn't deal with this. He was always in charge, always solved everyone's problems. Who could _he_ turn to? He needed Combeferre, or Feuilly, but he wasn't ready to face them, to explain, either. He sat on the step, beside Grantaire, and sobbed.

A few minutes later, Enjolras was himself again. Grantaire was leaning against the wall, head turned down. Enjolras considered simply leaving, going to classes, leaving this man to his fate. Finally, he managed to convince himself that he should at least bring him inside. If only so he wouldn't get robbed, beaten, or killed, or find some other peril. He didn't owe Grantaire anything, he reconciled, however, he did know the man, and felt certain obligations. Sighing, he lifted the heavier man, (using his Super Revolutionary Mountain Goat Powers, as taught to him by Jean Valjean) and struggled his way, gracefully, up the stairs. Laying Grantaire on the bed, tucking him in firmly so he wouldn't damage anything. Glancing around, Enjolras realized there wasn't much to damage, anyway. He hastily gathered his papers (which, of course, had not been destroyed), gathered the bits of garbage, and contemplated having to write his 'dear' Papa for more money. Damn. He scowled at Grantaire, who half-smiled back, before flinching. Enjolras softened his expression, slightly. What else had he expected, he considered, bitterly. Once a drunkard, always a drunkard. I am a fool.

He glanced at the clock. He had missed his first class, but if he hurried could make his second. He cast an eye over Grantaire, who was playing with the blanket, and alternately humming and muttering to himself, eyes wandering the room, never still. He really shouldn't be left alone like this, but Enjolras was in no mood to stay, at least without a break. Suddenly, he had an idea. He waved a hand in front of Grantaire's eyes, watching the drunkard's reaction. As he suspected, the man saw only the beginning and end positions clearly; he wasn't seeing very clearly.

Enjolras untied his hair, removed his boots, and slipped on a huge white shirt his mother had sent, god knows why. This he belted with a long strip of white material he found, probably torn loose during his rampage. He checked himself quickly in the mirror, deeming himself sufficiently god-like to 'appear' to Grantaire. Walking with even more grace than usual, he reentered the bedroom, trying to appear wise and benevolent. And not laugh, scorn, or run away.

In a deep, somber voice, he intoned, "Grantaire, winecask. I, Apollo, have come to speak to you."

Grantaire nodded, in a manner of speaking.

"Your...lover...Enjolras will return, but only if you obey me! You must stay here, in this bed. There is water and bread. But stay! Or I shall smite thee!"

Waving his hands theatrically, in what he hoped were sufficiently smite-y gestures, Enjolras walked slowly, backwards, until he was out of Grantaire's bleary sight. He leaned against the wall, stifling laughter and outrage. He heard the drunkard sigh, and removed the ridiculous garb before peering in. The man was asleep, looking peaceful at last. Sighing, Enjolras forced himself to stand without the wall, and made his way to class. He just hoped this little ruse worked.


	6. Sweet Hatred, Bitter Love

The day, composed of two classes of two hours each, seemed much longer, coupled with the fact that Enjolras was paying absolutely no attention to anything. His professors, while exasperated, knew him well enough to realize that something major was going on, and leave him alone. He managed to terrify Combeferre by walking right into him in the hall, without so much as a glance in return. All he could think about was Grantaire, and how much he hated both himself and the drunk for this obsession.

He stumbled home, completely unaware. Mostly, he just wanted to toss the winecask out into the street, for the birds to eat, or the police to arrest, or any number of fates that wouldn't relate to him. But he was stuck, and he knew it. With one last sigh, he climbed his stairs, fitted his invisible key into the lock, and almost stumbled inside. He actually locked the door behind him, noting that his keys were already inside with some confusion, quickly ignored. He gathered himself, listening as he approached his bedroom. He didn't hear anything, so he poked his head in, unbelievably relieved. Grantaire was asleep. Enjolras approached, cautiously, as he would a sleeping bear. The man looked so peaceful, almost beautiful, the way the sunlight illuminated his hair, bringing out the subtle shades of red and—no! This was just stupid. He, Enjolras, was no simpering teenager, to fall over a bit of beauty, an interesting trick of the light. This had to stop.

"This has to stop!" He said, out loud and rather loudly.

Grantaire stirred, gave a little moaning stretch, and peered up at him. He was no longer drunk, didn't appear hung over… at first glance, he was simply like any other man waking up and seeing his lover—the man he loved. Without return. Enjolras forced control over his thoughts, mentally squeezing so hard it hurt.

A flurry of emotion crossed Grantaire's face: joy, pleasure, desire, then confusion, terror and remorse.

In a burst of inhuman strength, Enjolras strode to the bed, delicately depositing himself beside the drunk, leaning down slightly, a haughty look on his long face. "We need to talk."

Grantaire, knowing that this phrase usually led to…bad things…like departure, tried to speed the process by standing. Enjolras shoved him back, using the part of Grantaire within easiest reach. Unfortunately, this was his neck. Grantaire half-collapsed, gasping with fear. Enjolras sighed, releasing his grip, massaging the back of his neck.

He tried again, more gently. "I-Gods damn it! I'm worried about you, and you don't know why, you stupid drunk, you're trying to get yourself killed!" And collapsed into noisy sobs, folded in on himself.

Grantaire, rather shell-shocked, could only stare as his god, lover and long-time oppressor collapsed inward. Slowly, hardly seeming to move unless you looked away and than back, he moved around beside Enjolras, placed a hand on his shoulder. When this appeared to be accepted, he wrapped the whole arm around his Apollo's neck, drawing him close in an embrace, simply holding him. At long last, Enjolras' sobbing stopped, his breathing slowed, and he was asleep. Grantaire simply kept holding him, until at last he, too, fell asleep, thinking about what Enjolras had said with disbelief.

Enjolras awoke first, slightly cramped from laying across Grantaire's lap all night, but feeling strangely whole, like he hadn't for a long time. He shivered slightly. Why had he fallen for Grantaire? He gazed up at the other man, still asleep, sitting up, leaning against the wall behind the bed. The drunk stirred, blinking, then stared down at Enjolras. Enjolras stared back, blue eyes locked in a silent dance of wills. Enjolras' won.

Grantaire, stammering, half murmured, "I…Gods, gods, I'm sorry. I didn't mean…I'll just…" and he rose, sobbing quietly.

Enjolras, a much gentler expression on his face than nearly anyone who wasn't Jehan saw, stopped him with a soft gesture, a shake of his head, unruly hair falling forward over his eyes.

Grantaire froze, watching him with every part of his body, attuned to every tiny movement of the other, down to his breathing.

They stared at each other, and cried.


End file.
